Work Text:
John’s hand hovered over the doorknob. What would he be walking into this time? In this flat, one could never tell…
It had become tradition for Sherlock and Rosie to hang the Christmas decorations while John was away at his December medical conference. The doctor chuckled at the memory of that first year, when Mrs. Hudson had baked holiday treats for them to decorate together. Sherlock had made beakers and skulls and fingerprints — because of course that man was as talented at drawing with icing as he was at everything else — and Rosie had done her best to imitate his art.
Another year, they had built a huge gingerbread periodic table of the elements on the coffee table — and then proceeded to eat it all month like some kind of twisted Advent calendar.
John grinned as he remembered the year with the paper chains — red, green, and white, but instead of an alternating pattern, they were arranged in the Fibonacci sequence. Last year, in place of a nativity scene, the duo had built an “elf crime scene,” complete with police tape and “evidence.”
Of course they had. Because Rosie was every bit as much Sherlock’s daughter as she was John’s — brain and heart in equal extraordinary measure.
John turned the knob, clueless what awaited him, but certain it would be brilliant.